Monsieur de St. Gre was silent.  Without, under the eaves of the gallery, a white rain fell, and a steaming moisture arose from the court-yard.

“What I have told you, Monsieur, is common knowledge.  Louisiana has been Spanish for twenty years.  I no longer wear the white cockade, for I am older now.”  He smiled.  “Strange things are happening in France, and the old order to which I belong” (he straightened perceptibly) “seems to be tottering.  I have ceased to intrigue, but thank God I have not ceased to pray.  Perhaps—­who knows?—­perhaps I may live to see again the lily of France stirred by the river breeze.”

He fell into a revery, his fine head bent a little, but presently aroused himself and eyed me curiously.  I need not say that I felt a strange liking for Monsieur de St. Gre.

“And now, Mr. Ritchie,” he said, “will you tell me who you are, and how I can serve you?”

The servant had put the coffee on the table and left the room.  Monsieur de St. Gre himself poured me a cup from the dainty, quaintly wrought Louis Quinze coffeepot, graven with the coat of arms of his family.  As we sat talking, my admiration for my host increased, for I found that he was familiar not only with the situation in Kentucky, but that he also knew far more than I of the principles and personnel of the new government of which General Washington was President.  That he had little sympathy with government by the people was natural, for he was a Creole, and behind that a member of an order which detested republics.  When we were got beyond these topics the rain had ceased, the night had fallen, the green candles had burned low.  And suddenly, as he spoke of Les Isles, I remembered the note Mademoiselle had given me for him, and I apologized for my forgetfulness.  He read it, and dropped it with an exclamation.

“My daughter tells me that you have returned to her a miniature which she lost, Monsieur,” he said.

“I had that pleasure,” I answered.

“And that—­you found this miniature at Madame Bouvet’s.  Was this the case?” And he stared hard at me.

I nodded, but for the life of me I could not speak.  It seemed an outrage to lie to such a man.  He did not answer, but sat lost in thought, drumming with his fingers on the tables until the noise of the slamming of a door aroused him to a listening posture.  The sound of subdued voices came from the archway below us, and one of these, from an occasional excited and feminine note, I thought to be the gardienne’s.  Monsieur de St. Gre thrust back his chair, and in three strides was at the edge of the gallery.

“Auguste!” he cried.

Silence.

“Auguste, come up to me at once,” he said in French.

Another silence, then something that sounded like “Sapristi!” a groan from the gardienne, and a step was heard on the stairway.  My own discomfort increased, and I would have given much to be in any other place in the world.  Auguste had arrived at the head of the steps but was apparently unable to get any farther.